So, on through the golden August sunshine or beneath the heavy harvest moon. Interminable processions of columns, horsed and petrol-driven, threading their way along the endless, poplar-lined roads of France; the white dust churned up and drifting over men and vehicles until they look like Arctic adventurers. No one knows what is happening in the great "beyond." No one very much cares. "Let's get on and have it over," is the philosophy of the hour. "Expect those Germans are being held up a bit in Belgium; wonder where we shall come in?" The enemy had marched in triumph through Brussels on August 20th. The British Force was not actually in position until two days later: and Brussels is only 30 odd miles from Mons. After it was all over; after the tide of war had crashed forward almost to the gates of Paris and then rolled sullenly back, one saw a little of the devastation it had left behind. Here are two pictures. * * * * * _August_ 20_th_. Can you, too, see that little vicarage hard by the tiny church? (Think, it might have been plucked from a Surrey hamlet.) The cool, veranda-shaded rooms filled with a hundred homely treasures; the tiled kitchen with its winking copper pots and pans. Out through the flagged yard, where pigeons coo in gentle defiance of predatory sparrows, and down to a miniature farmstead. The pretty alleyed garden of roses, hollyhocks and the flowers and sweet herbs of English garden-lovers. Can you see the old curé as he browses over a volume of Renan? He has tended his flock in that village for a quarter of a century. A pretty niece keeps house for him; and her dainty herb-potions and unwearied nursing have saved many a life in the little community. They think of her as of an angel from heaven. _September_ 7_th_. A fortnight later! The village street has disappeared beneath the debris of what was once the village. One cow-shed is still miraculously intact, and from it creeps a gaunt, haggard old crone. They have not touched her. She was too old and infirm to make good fun, even for the rank and file. She points with shaking finger to the wayside crucifix from which the Christ looks down with infinite patience. He also has been miraculously preserved. He gazes still over His tiny sanctuary, now but two blackened, battered walls. The vicarage has disappeared as though in an earthquake. The incendiary tablets have done their work well. The little garden with its pretty rose trees has been ploughed up, it would seem, by giant shares. Stay, in one corner, down by the brook, there is planted a rough wooden cross. The old curé had refused to leave his post when the stream of refugees had passed through. They told him of the horror behind them. He stood firm. Jeannette, too, would stay with her uncle. _They_ came. The curé, they said, must be a spy left behind by the French troops. Besides, he had carrier-pigeons. "What need have we of further witnesses?"